


Out of Hand

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Written for LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Seven Days of HalloweenEach chapter was based on a picture prompt





	1. Chapter 1

“This is the cargo ship _Marianthe_ ,” Mr. Waverly said, turning toward the image on the screen. “She left Rotterdam for Newark five days ago carrying materials for Section IV. New enhancements for headquarters security, that sort of thing. A complement of Section III agents sailed with her.”

Napoleon leaned back in his chair. “A routine precaution.” 

“I wish it were all routine. Almost immediately they began to report troubling occurrences. Power fluctuations. Equipment malfunctions.”

“Well, those could be the result of poor maintenance. Do you suspect Thrush sabotage?”

“Not unless Thrush is also responsible for the parakinesis and disembodied voices.” Waverly acknowledged Napoleon’s surprise. “Oh, yes. Mind you, they didn’t report those details until they almost had a mutiny on their hands.”

Napoleon indulged in a quick grin. “They probably assumed they’d be relieved of duty pending psychological evaluations.”

“Whatever the reasons, their hesitancy cost us valuable time. I immediately dispatched Mr. Kuryakin to the _Marianthe_ to get to the bottom of it.”

“A sea voyage? And there I was in Palm Springs missing all the fun.”

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin expressed similar sentiments.” Waverly consulted his casebook. “That was two days ago. Since yesterday we’ve had no contact whatsoever with the _Marianthe_. Nor have there been sightings of her by other vessels in those shipping lanes.” 

Napoleon sat up straighter. “What about military?”

“We made discrete inquiries, of course, to several nations. Nothing.”

“I presume that also means no, ah, wreckage has been found,” he said with a grimace.

“None. Communications had the good sense to triangulate Mr. Kuryakin’s last transmission. Not a single piece of debris was found near that location.”

“Good news, though it gets us no closer to finding them. Did Illya say anything in that last call to indicate they were in danger?”

“You’d better hear for yourself.”

Waverly worked his instrument panel, and Napoleon recognized Linda’s voice on the speaker. “Come in. Channel D is open. I repeat, Channel D is open. Come in, please.”

There was a moment of silence. Then heavy breathing filled the room, each exhalation descending into a feral growl.

“Animal?” Napoleon asked. Waverly shook his head, his face grim.

A cloud passed over the sun, and the narrow windows darkened. Napoleon shuddered as a chill coursed through him. The low, guttural noises amplified, their tone and cadence eerily familiar.

Napoleon swallowed his revulsion. Though the words were unintelligible, his creeping flesh told him they were foul and malevolent. His hand raised in a vestigial need to trace the sign of the cross.

“Turn it off,” he said sharply.

Waverly’s brows rose, but he flipped a switch. The horrible gnarring ceased. 

“Thank you.” Napoleon’s face set stubbornly. “That was not Illya.”

“Our scanners indicate the vocal patterns are consistent with those of Mr. Kuryakin. But I tend to agree with you. I don’t believe that my agent was responsible for that…I don’t know what to call it.”

“Do we know what it was saying?”

“The computers only tell us it’s a language. So far it’s untranslatable.”

Napoleon rose from his chair. “I’d like to review all reports related to the search. Maybe we missed something.”

“Section IV is taking care of that. You are going to YIT.” He spun the table, and a folder stopped in front of Napoleon. “There’s a professor there, a Dr. Wagman, who’s an expert on linguistics. I want him to listen to that transmission.”

Napoleon opened his mouth to protest, but Waverly’s expression brooked no argument. He gave a small salute with the folder and crossed to the door.

As the panels hissed open, Waverly said, “You’d better wear a crucifix.”

Napoleon turned back, his lips curving wryly. His smile faltered under Waverly’s forbidding gaze.

“Yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon smiled at a passing undergraduate as he knocked on the professor’s door, then twisted around to watch her miniskirt sway down the corridor. He turned back and flinched. A wild-haired old man with a crazed grin stared up at him.

“Dr. Wagman?” Napoleon asked.

“Ye-ess?” he said slowly, putting the agent in mind of a cinema vampire.

“I’m Napoleon Solo from the U.N.C.L.E. You agreed to listen to something for us.”

Dr. Wagman drew back his head and opened his eyes wide. “Ah, yes, the recording,” he said, rolling the Rs. “Come in to my office.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” Napoleon murmured, taking a last look around the corridor before following the professor into the gloom.

Decades rolled back with each step. A hanging brass oil lamp under a painted shade provided the room’s only illumination. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the windows.

“Forgive the darkness. Sunlight is bad for my library.”

“Mr. Edison’s done some amazing work in that area,” Napoleon said as he side-stepped a pile of books. “You should read up on it.”

More stacks of books jutted from the carpet like headstones. Countess volumes lined the shadowed walls, their flaking gold titles winking in the lamplight. The office reeked of kerosene and must, of moldy leather and aging parchment. Napoleon began to feel lightheaded.

The world’s foremost authority on dead languages sat down behind his vast desk. Eyeing the decaying chair the professor offered, Napoleon chose to stand. He placed a small silver briefcase on the desktop. George Dennell had looked at him strangely when he requisitioned the model designed for transporting volatile compounds. Napoleon only knew the tape player was not going to travel in his coat pocket.

He opened the case and spun it around, reluctant to touch the device. Dr. Wagman picked up the player and turned it over in his hands as if it were a relic of the ancient world. “So small,” he said.

“But with stereophonic sound.”

The professor put the player on the desk and, to Napoleon’s relief, required no assistance to activate it. He glared impatiently during Linda’s part, licking his parched lips with a tiny, pointed tongue. As the snarling mockery of speech began, he grinned, wide-eyed and maniacal, and rubbed his hands together. “Beautiful. Like music.”

Napoleon screwed up his face in distaste. Needing to put as much space as possible between himself and the recording, he strolled over to the bookshelves. Artifacts both obscure and grotesque stood interspersed among the volumes. The shrill gibberish of the tape rewinding was almost as disturbing as the original. The professor dipped a pen into an inkwell and scribbled furiously as the transmission repeated. The scratching of the nib across the paper sent a frisson down Napoleon’s spine.

Seeking a distraction, Napoleon opened an ornate box, then quickly shut it. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and again lifted the lid. He had not been seeing things. A withered human hand lay within, the brown leathery fingers curled like talons.

“I’ve heard of leaving your heart someplace, but, ah...”

“It is a hand of glory.”

Napoleon jumped. The professor stood at his elbow, leering at the ghoulish object.

“A what?” Napoleon asked as he stuffed his own hands into his pockets.

“A hand of glory,” Dr. Wagman intoned, the latter rhymed with flowery. He jutted his face closer to the agent. “Are you a devotee of the mystic and arcane?”

“No,” Napoleon said, leaning back, “I’m a devotee of the soft and feminine.”

The professor picked up the box. “It is the mummified hand of an executed man. With it one can open the strongest lock and render the strongest man insensible.”

Napoleon rolled the shoulder above his Special and smile drolly. “I can do those things too.”

“For the quick, the means of the quick,” Dr. Wagman said, closing the box.

“Ok.” Napoleon glanced back at the desk. “Listen, Doctor, have you, ah, learned anything from that recording?”

The professor returned to his desk and set the box beside his notes. “It is a language of the dead.”

“Yes, a dead language. That much we knew.”

“No, a language of the dead.”

Napoleon grew cold, then hot. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he said harshly, “Are you saying that Illya is—”

“Only the dead can hear the dead.”

Napoleon ran a hand over his face. “So something, some dead thing was using Illya as a…” He searched for a reference the archaic little man would understand. “A telephone?”

The professor nodded.

Napoleon paced between the stacks of books. “Well, did they say what they wanted or what happened to the ship?”

“Only the dead can under—”

“Understand the dead. Naturally.” Napoleon‘s voice raised in frustration. “Unfortunately, all the people I know happen to be alive. How about you, professor? You have any pen pals among the dearly departed?”

Dr. Wagman’s crazed grin returned. Napoleon swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I asked.”


	3. Chapter 3

“A message from beyond, eh? Well, well.”

Napoleon stood, one shoulder against the wall, his mouth open. “You aren’t suggesting we take Dr. Wagman seriously?”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Mr. Solo.” Waverly faced the narrow window, gazing at events far beyond the city. “I’ve seen things in my time, things that were ‘out of this world,’ as you young people might say.”

Napoleon swallowed a smile. “Yes, so have I. But not this far out of the world.”

Waverly sighed and returned his attention to the present. “Where are the professor’s notes?”

“In the briefcase.” Napoleon swung a bent arm toward them.

Waverly rotated the table as he passed, bringing the case to rest before his chair. He withdrew a yellowed sheet and skimmed over it. “So that was the language of the dead, was it? ‘Open Channel D,’ indeed.”

Waverly looked up at his chief enforcement officer, who stared back speechlessly. Clearing his throat, the Old Man returned his eyes to the case. “What’s this?”

Napoleon pushed himself off the wall as Waverly drew out an ornate box. “Sir, I wouldn’t open that.”

Waverly lifted the lid. His brows shot up. Napoleon shut his eyes and waited for the hammer to fall. “A hand of glory. I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

Napoleon opened his eyes. “You know of it?”

“As I said, Mr. Solo, I’ve seen many things in my time. A pub I frequented during the War had one on display. We used to cajole the barman into telling us the story.”

“If he was anything like the bartenders here,” Napoleon said, moving closer, “it didn’t take much cajoling.”

“Quite right. Centuries earlier, as his story went, a thief had used the hand to break in and put the owner and his family into some sort of trance. A servant girl, for one reason or another, remained unaffected. She managed to extinguish the hand and raise the alarm.”

“Extinguish it?”

“Oh, yes. That’s how you operate it.”

Napoleon frowned and worked his fist as Waverly picked up the withered appendage. “That might not be a good idea. I hate to admit it, but Dr. Wagman snuck that in there without my knowing.”

“So I gathered.” He tapped the instrument panel, where a light blinked steadily. “We’ll have to trust our scanners are more reliable than your powers of observation.”

“Ah, yes, I guess we will.”

Waverly sniffed the air. “Wormwood.” He drew a wax taper from the corner of the box and fitted it within the grasping fingers. “You light the candle, then go about your dark deeds.”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’ll stick with our modern methods.”

“This does seem more in Thrush’s line than ours.” Waverly disassembled the gruesome object and returned it to the box. “What do we know about this Cliff House?”

Napoleon took the seat next to him. “It’s about two hours north of here, one of those Victorian resorts they built overlooking the lakes. This one had an unfortunate reputation of being haunted.”

“Did it? Very interesting.”

“Probably a rumor started by a rival hotel. And it worked too. Business was never good, and the owners eventually gifted the property to the local Diocese. For the next few years, the Church used it as a school.”

“The unfortunate reputation persisted, I presume.”

“Yes. Most students wouldn’t stay more than a year. It’s now home to a small order of cloistered nuns.”

“A monastery? Hmmm. A bulwark of prayer. Very sensible.”

“A bulwark? Against what?”

“The dead, Mr. Solo. At least that’s what Dr. Wagman would have us believe.” Waverly held up the paper. The writing scrawled across it was the color of dried blood. “He says here that there’s only one other place he’s heard the language on that transmission. That’s at this Cliff House.”

“Well, did he at least give us a hint at what I’m looking for up there?”

“Just get yourself to this cloister. I have a strong feeling that once there, whatever we’re after will come looking for you.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Yes, sir.” He rose from his chair and headed for the door.

“Mr. Solo, aren’t you forgetting something?” Waverly returned the box to the silver briefcase and spun it toward the agent.

“I should take that thing with me?” he asked, incredulous.

“Oh, I think so. Dr. Wagman seemed to believe it would be useful.”

“What about modern methods?”

“By all means, bring those as well. A lighter, in particular.”

Napoleon reluctantly retrieved the briefcase. “Is it alright if I use my communicator, or would you prefer I report via carrier pigeon?”

Waverly, his attention back on the professor’s notes, did not answer.

Napoleon had just crossed the threshold when Waverly asked, “This order of nuns at Cliff House, what are they called?”

“The Sisters of the Mighty Hand of God.”

“Are they, indeed? How interesting.”


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon fished the bleating communicator from his inner pocket. “Solo here.”

“Did you get thyself to a nunnery?” Wanda asked.

“Still on route. You know, it’s really very beautiful up here. Perfect for a romantic weekend.”

“At a convent? That’s not my idea of romance.”

“How about a castle, then? They’ve got Gothic hotels up here right out of a fairy tale.”

“With no television and a boiler that goes out like clockwork. No thanks. Besides, we might be spending this night together…on your long drive back. The sisters occasionally provide aid and comfort to wayward hikers, but no one’s allowed to stay after nine.”

“Why? What happens at nine?”

“If you were here, I’d show you.”

Directed by a small sign, Napoleon turned off the state road onto a dirt drive. A canopy of trees created a premature twilight. “You doubt my powers of persuasion?”

“Not at all. I’ve seen them in action.” Her voice crackled.

Napoleon shook the communicator and answered, “I have a way with nuns. Sister Mary Aquinas once told me I was her favorite pupil.”

Wanda’s response was lost in a hail of static.

“Hello. Open Channel D.”

He received no response. With a grimace, Napoleon closed the antenna on his knee and slid the communicator into his pocket.

After a few miles, a stone wall signaled the border of the convent property. Napoleon pulled the convertible up to a wrought iron gate. The trees overhead erupted into squawking confusion as the brass bell broke the heavy arboreal silence. Minutes passed with no answer. He yanked the bell pull again. He had begun to eye the silver case at his feet speculatively when movement beyond the gate drew his attention. A tall, black-robed figure glided toward him.

“Good evening, Sister. I hope I haven’t disturbed your prayers.”

Deep-set eyes peered out from a gaunt, sallow face. “Not at all, Mr. Solo. His Presence is always with me.”

“You know me?” he asked. At her solemn nod, he pointed upwards. “Did, ah, He tell you I was coming?”

“If by ‘He’ you mean our Bishop, then yes.”

She unlocked the gate and hauled its creaking mass inward with the gnarled, raw-boned hands of a bare-knuckle boxer. Napoleon followed her along a path that wound through the trees. The woods ended abruptly, unveiling an expansive view of the surrounding hills. He leaned over a stone balustrade and looked down the precipice at the narrow glacial lake far below. Its crystal waters reflected the deep blue of the evening sky.

“You certainly have a beautiful setting,” he said. “And fresh fish on Fridays.”

The Sister did not look down. “There are no fish, Mr. Solo. It is a dead lake.”

To his left, a house entwined with ivy projected from the cliff top as if sculpted from the rock itself. The Sister led him to an entrance at its rear. The name Dumont Cottage was carved into the lintel.

“Dumont? As in railroads and oil wells Dumont?”

“A younger son. He wished to enjoy the resort’s amenities from a more private vantage.”

“Where the rich rich could retreat from the poor rich.”

He smiled at the thought of sharing this with Wanda on his return. ‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ she would say, to which he would reply, ‘And such a lovely mouth too.’ Then he thought of her lost signal and frowned.

The Sister opened the door. “And now it is home to those who have taken a vow of poverty. Truly ‘God resisteth the proud, but to the humble he giveth grace.’”

In the foyer, she paused. “Wait here, please,” she said and rounded the corner.

Napoleon assessed his surroundings. Whitewash and simple furnishings could not entirely obscure the cottage’s elegant bones. Grainy photographs hung on the wall beside him, a collection of images from the resort’s scholastic past. Rows of uniformed boys of various ages, stiff and unsmiling, peered from the frames. Some were labeled with white ink. One name jumped out: Wagman.

“You may come this way.” The Sister stood across the foyer, gesturing to an open door. As Napoleon entered the room, a voice said, “…and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Three sisters sat in the parlor. Two looked up from their game of checkers. The third closed the book she had been reading aloud. His usual suave assurance abandoned him under their somber regard.

“This is Mr. Napoleon Solo of the U.N.C.L.E.”

The pretty novice in the white habit tittered behind her fingers, then quailed under the disapproving gazes of her fellow Sisters.

“I am Sister John,” the tall nun said severely. Napoleon nodded, massaging the knuckles that Sister Mary Aquinas had rapped with her ruler so long ago. He put the hand in his pocket.

“This is Sister Paul.” The nun, as petite as the first was tall, clutched her book tightly. A long nose protruded from her pale, oval face, and its pink tip quivered.

“Sister George.” Sharp eyes, raven-black, met his briefly, then resumed their intense appraisal of the checkerboard.

“And Sister Ringo.”

The charming smile he directed at the novice froze, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Sister Ringo,” the novice said slowly, her expression stern. Then her shoulders shook. Her mouth contorted with the effort of maintaining her frown. “Oh, Mr. Solo, you should see your face.” Dropping her head onto her arm, she dissolved into giggles.

Napoleon looked around and met three smiles of more reserved but equally genuine amusement.

“Please excuse Sister Cecile. She is very fond of that joke.” Sister John’s grin softened her harsh features. “Sometimes I think if not for that, she would have chosen the Dominicans.”

Napoleon laughed weakly. “May I be properly introduced?”

“Oh, you have been, except for Sister Cecile, of course. She has not yet taken her new name, and alas, there is no Saint Ringo.”

Napoleon scoured his memory. “There was a Saint Rigobert, I think.”

Sister Cecile pulled a face. “Yes, but it’s just not the same.”

Sister John sat down behind an embroidery stand, and Napoleon took the adjacent chair. Her bony hands stabbed a needle in and out of the cloth, leaving a trail of surprisingly exquisite stitches. He cocked his head and realized the threads were tracing the shape of a skull. “You do, ah, lovely work.”

“Memento mori, Mr. Solo. There is great spiritual benefit in meditating on one’s death.”

“Well, everyone should have a hobby.” He smoothed his tie. “That brings me to the reason I’ve come. I need to speak to your Reverend Mother.”

“That is a very irregular request. Ours is a cloistered, contemplative Order.”

“But you permitted me to enter.”

She smiled patiently. “Only this far. We are extern Sisters. Our service to the Community includes engagement with the outside world. But no one else may enter the Enclosure except under the direst emergency.”

Napoleon fought the urge to raise his voice. “This is a matter of life and death.”

“Even in such circumstances, the Sisters would remain in their cells, unseen. I will, however, take a message to the Reverend Mother on your behalf.”

Napoleon scribbled a note on the pad Sister Cecile brought him. “Please tell her it’s urgent.”

Sister John took the paper. “You are hungry and tired. Sister Paul and Sister George will tend to your needs.”

Sensing his dismissal, Napoleon followed Sister Paul into the hallway. She led him to a door marked Infirmary. “We tend to injured hikers here. Despite the warning signs, many do stray from the trails.”

The small room held a table, chair and narrow cot. A framed embroidery hung between the supply cabinet and the open window. Napoleon recognized the workmanship. “Sister John?”

“Yes. It’s an inscription from St. Paul's Monastery on Mount Athos.”

“What does it say?”

Sister Paul’s nose twitched like a white rat’s. “If you die before you die, then you won’t die when you die.”

Sister George arrived with a supper tray laden with vegetable soup, rolls, and a glass of red wine. The two nuns left him to his meal.

Napoleon drained the last drop from the glass having received no word from Sister John. Wishing the nuns had brought him the whole bottle, he moved from the uncomfortable wooden chair to the cot. A soft breeze blew in through the window. Crickets chirped. He rested his head back against the wall.

“Mr. Solo, wake up.”

Napoleon opened his eyes. He was lying on the cot. The window was dark. “I must have dozed off,” he said, sitting up and smoothing his hair.

Sister Cecile stood in the hall, a lantern in hand. “Quick. Follow me.”

Napoleon looked over her shoulder. Another Sister stood farther down the hall, her face shadowed. “Has the Reverend Mother agreed to see me?”

“Hurry, please. It is almost time for the Great Silence.”

He grabbed the case and followed her. She led him down a flight of stairs and out a door. They emerged onto a narrow ledge in the cliff face. A thick fog bank rolled up from the lake.

“Unusual weather,” he remarked. “Look, what’s all this about?”

She held out the lantern. “The answers you seek are down there.”

Napoleon frowned at the narrow flight of stairs descending into the fog. He looked at the novice questioningly. She nodded. Their fingers brushed as he took the lamp. Hers were as cold as ice.

With a sigh, he started cautiously down the wet steps. Tendrils of heavy mist curled around his ankles.

“Mr. Solo.”

He turned to look back at Sister Cecile.

“Only the dead can understand the dead.”

A powerful blow struck his back. His feet slipped on the slick stone. He pitched forward and fell headlong over the edge. It had to be a dream. The wind whistled in his ears as he plummeted toward the lake. At any moment he would wake up back in the Infirmary.

“Wake up,” he yelled, the wind tearing the words from his mouth.

As he struck the icy water, everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Napoleon lay on his back, softness beneath him. He was still in the Infirmary. It had been a dream after all. 

A hand shook his shoulder. “Would that be John, Paul, George, or Ringo?”

His cheek received a stinging blow. “Neither. Wake up,” snapped a familiar voice.

Napoleon opened his eyes. His frowning partner leaned over him. “Sorry,” Napoleon said, massaging his abused face. “It’s the hair.”

He sat up and immediately regretted it. He felt as if he had been ten rounds in the ring with Sister John. He was soaked to the skin. He licked his lips. Sea water.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d drop in.” Napoleon swung his legs gingerly over the side of the berth. “I figured you could use a deus ex machina.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “More like Icarus. A few more feet and you would have landed on the deck. A poor way to go.”

Napoleon looked around the cramped compartment. A lantern flickered on the table. The engines were silent, the deck steady beneath his feet. “Did we reach Newark?”

“Does that look like Newark?”

Napoleon crossed to the porthole. Beyond the glass, a thick wall of fog glowed with a ghostly gray light. “Well, there’s a lot of delays on the Turnpike, if it does.” Turning back, he saw the silver case atop the dresser and frowned. “That thing is like a bad penny.”

“That thing kept you from going under.”

“George will be happy to hear it. He was waxing eloquent about the new features on the C25 model. Also serves as a flotation device.”

Illya tossed a towel at him. “I have been attempting to call headquarters for two days. I presume Section IV was able to triangulate our position, even if they could not respond.”

“Ah, yes, they were,” Napoleon said, rubbing his hair. “But it only proved useful in a roundabout way.”

“How did you find us, then?”

“With a little help from my friend.”

“A woman, undoubtedly.”

“Not just any woman.” He draped the towel over his head. “A nun.”

“You’re joking.”

“Scout’s honor.” Napoleon held up three fingers. “Pushed me right off a cliff.”

“I see. I will not ask you to explain that idiom, as I am sure I would regret it.”

“No idiom. One minute a pretty novice was leading me to what I hoped was the answer to your disappearance, the next minute, Geronimo.” He swung his hand downward, then twisted his torso with a grimace. “At least I think it was a nun. Whoever it was packed quite a wallop.”

“Well, you are consistent, if nothing else.”

“How about you? Been enjoying your sea cruise?”

“We’ve had a little trouble with a stowaway.”

Before Napoleon could ask him to elaborate, the silver case flew off the dresser, narrowly missing his head. Illya grabbed the lantern as the small table beneath it reared and toppled. The once silent ship creaked and groaned like a submarine exceeding its test depth.

“Vandermeer,” Illya exclaimed. He raced out of the compartment. 

Sounds of upheaval came from behind every door in the passage. Only the companionway, shining with warm, tranquil light, offered safe haven. “Illya, this way,” Napoleon called.

“No, Napoleon, that’s just what he wants.” 

With reluctance, Napoleon followed him through the door marked Crew’s Mess. The lantern that hung from the overhead swayed crazily, throwing menacing shadows around the compartment. A man sat slumped over a table, his head on an open book. 

“Vandermeer, wake up.” Illya pulled the man up by his hair and smacked his face. “Coffee, quickly,” he barked.

Napoleon grabbed a tall thermos, wincing as a phalanx of chairs slammed into his legs. He kicked one away to reach the fallen mug, then filled it with coffee and handed it to Illya. 

Vandermeer looked around blearily. Illya thrust the mug into his hands. “Drink.”

The man took several gulps, then shook his head. “Dank je. I am better.” He threw back the rest of the coffee and, leaning heavily over the book, began to read aloud. His voice was quiet but fervent. The lantern overhead steadied. The agonized groaning of metal abated. 

“What’s he doing?” Napoleon whispered.

“He’s praying.” Illya took the empty mug from Vandermeer’s hand and held it out to be refilled. Napoleon watched the last drops leave the thermos with the same sinking feeling as he would a canteen in the desert. Illya clapped Vandermeer on the shoulder, then, leaving the mug on the table, went out into the passageway. 

“Praying, huh? That’s an unusual tactic for you,” Napoleon said as he joined him.

“I’m a pragmatist. So far, it’s the only thing that’s kept our stowaway at bay.”

Napoleon pointed at the Special holstered under Illya’s arm. “Run out of bullets?”

“Hardly.” In the blink of an eye, Illya had the muzzle pressed to Napoleon’s forehead. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Napoleon twisted his lips and pushed the pistol away. “Was that really necessary?”

Illya holstered his weapon. “You usually require a demonstration. Nothing has worked since this fog engulfed us.” He led them through the outer door and leaned against the handrail. The seas beneath the dome of glowing fog were as smooth as glass. 

“Dead calm. Dead lake. Dead language.” Napoleon punctuated each phrase with a thump of his hand against the rail. The muffled clangs resonated in the eery silence. “You like patterns, Illya. What does that one tell you?” 

“That the fall addled your brains.”

“I think, pal o’mine, that we may finally have bought the farm.” 

Illya rolled his eyes. “You, perhaps. You’re the one who was pushed off a cliff. My pulse is as strong as ever.”

Napoleon shot a wrist from his cuff and held two fingers to it. “So’s mine. Well, maybe this is all a Thrush plot, and we’re the guinea pigs for their newest antigravity ray.”

“An ultrasonic traction beam would be more likely.”

“What about the captain and crew? Did you get anything out of them?”

“Not much.”

“Well, let’s get on that. Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“What?”

“They’re gone. Some were the victims of flying equipment. Some jumped overboard out of terror. Our stowaway got the rest.”

“Just who is this stowaway? A mad scientist? A Thrush psychopath?”

“You’ll see soon enough. I doubt Vandermeer can keep it up much longer. There were two of them before you arrived, one praying while the other slept. Janssen went under when we were hauling you into the lifeboat.”

“I’m sorry.” Napoleon kicked one foot against the toerail. “So Vandermeer, you, and I are the only ones left.”

“Not quite. The captain’s daughter is on board. Marit.”

He straightened at Illya’s tone. “Where is she?”

“In the hold.”

“Isn’t that a tad extreme, Captain Bligh?”

“She did it herself. The door’s jammed, and we can’t open it.” Illya ran his hand through his hair. “Napoleon, she claims to be responsible for all this. She says she’s…”

“Well? Out with it. She says she…”

“Raised a ghost. Ridiculous, I know.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Illya.” He straightened his damp tie. “We need to talk to her.”

“How do you propose to do that? Morse Code on the bulkhead? I’ve tried everything to get in, from incendiary tape to a good, old-fashioned crow bar. Nothing has worked.”

Napoleon snapped his fingers. “For the quick, the means of the quick.” He headed back to the compartment.

“I wish you would stop talking in riddles,” Illya muttered behind him.

Napoleon retrieved the case and set it on the table Illya had righted. He found the contents intact. “Illya, do you remember the call you made, probably right as this fog rolled in?”

“Not entirely. I remember requesting Channel D, then I blacked out. Something must have hit me.”

“Something did.” He activated the tape player. “This is the last transmission we received from you.” 

Illya’s lips thinned as the growling exhalations resolved into speech. This time the horrible gnarring was a living language. Napoleon recognized various cognates, though he could not understand the words.

“That is not me,” Illya hissed.

“I know. Something was using you to send a message. Do you know the language? 

“I think it’s Hungarian.” The hand that stopped the tape trembled. His face was pale.

“What did it say?”

“I could translate only a few words. Blood. Feast. Return.” Illya slammed his fist on the table. “We need to get to Marit.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

“I think she is the danger. When I last saw her, there was blood on her mouth. She said she’d been struck by a flying hairbrush. Now I am not so sure.” 

Napoleon grabbed the ornate box. “Let’s go.”

The companionway was dark, its silence unwelcoming. Illya led him below into the bowels of the ship until they reached the bulkhead door of the hold. 

Napoleon squatted down and opened the box. “Wait til you see what I brought.” 

Illya looked over his shoulder. “Anyone we know?”

“That’s all? Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“It’s a hand of glory. A pub in Cambridge had one.” 

“Whatever happened to dart boards and Guinness posters?” He rubbed his knuckles. “Would you, ah, care to do the honors?”

“Squeamish.” Illya knelt beside him. Napoleon watched with a disgusted moue as Illya took up the desiccated hand and placed the candle in its grip. “Light.”

Napoleon fished his lighter from his pocket and lit the taper. “Now what?”

“Don’t you know?”

“It didn’t come with a manual.” Napoleon gestured for him to hold it closer to the door. “Ah, Open Sesame.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “That’s Arabian Nights, you—”

With a prolonged creak, the handwheel slowly turned, and the dogs clanked. The two agents looked at each other. Napoleon pulled the door open a few inches. They heard movement within.

Illya began to sing in hushed tones. “Bayu bayushki bayu ne lozhisya na krayu…”

As the haunting lullaby faded away, they listened for more sounds. All was quiet. Napoleon pulled the door wide and stepped into the hold. Soft light flickered behind a stack of crates. 

“A gray wolf will bite you?” he said. “You must be a charming babysitter.”

“Next time I’ll sing Rock-a-bye Baby.” 

They followed the light to a small nook. A cluster of guttering candles surrounded a small, iron-bound chest like an alter. Recent cuts in the deck marked a trail to a nearby crate, the stenciled word GALLERY still visible on its splintered side.

A woman in a long, white gown lay on a blanket in front of the chest. Napoleon knelt at her side and gently turned her over. Her teeth and lips were drenched in scarlet. Napoleon pried a gilded chalice from her fingers. He looked inside the cup, and his lips twisted in disgust.

Illya returned from a wider search of the hold, his face ashen. “I found the others,” he said and shook his head.

Napoleon lifted a heavy gold pendant from Marit’s chest. The portrait of a saturnine, mustachioed face leered out from its center, framed by tiny braids of human hair. “Who is this?”

“Our stowaway.”

“His ancestor, maybe. This is a museum piece.” 

“No. We saw that man. Each time we gave chase. Each time someone did not return.” He crouched by the chest and lifted a jewel-encrusted dagger, the blade stained with congealed blood. “Their throats are slit.”

“I think we can guess what ‘feast’ and ‘blood’ referred to. Now how do we stop the part about ‘return’?”

He dropped the dagger. “We start by throwing this overboard.” 

Napoleon removed the pendant from Marit’s neck and placed it in the chest along with the bloody chalice. Each partner grasped an iron handle and pulled. With the heavy coffer suspended between them, they made the slow climb to the main deck.

They were in sight of the railing and the wall of fog beyond when the ship shuddered and groaned. A light fixture behind them exploded, showering them with shards of glass. A fire extinguisher hurled from its bracket and cannoned into Illya. He slammed against a stanchion. The hand of glory disappeared over the side. 

Napoleon staggered as the heavy chest, freed from Illya’s grasp, crashed to the deck. “Vandermeer,” he cried, regaining his footing and turning toward the Mess. 

“No time,” Illya gasped. “Get rid of it.” 

A cold, foul wind whipped through Napoleon, penetrating down to his bones. He clutched at the pendant beneath his dress shirt. 

Illya dropped to his knees. His face contorted. He growled malevolently in a voice not his own. Napoleon did not need to speak Hungarian to know his life was being threatened. 

Illya lifted an arm, and the chest scraped across the deck toward him. Napoleon tore at his necktie, and buttons popped from his shirt as he wrenched out an abstract figure of gold and onyx.

“Leave him alone,” Napoleon bellowed as he held out the crucifix.

Illya fell to his side, writhing. His face shone with sweat. “Get out of my head,” he yelled. “I am no man’s puppet.” 

Napoleon heaved the chest off the deck. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” he grunted, as he lurched toward the railing.

A banshee wail sounded in a horrible descant above the uproar. Something leapt onto his back. Nails raked his face, and teeth sank into his ear. Muscles straining, heart bursting, Napoleon hauled the chest onto the top rail with an agonized yowl and pushed it over. 

The thunderous boom of a depth charge drove out all other sound. The ship rocked violently. A burst of water exploded alongside the hull. The force knocked Napoleon and his assailant onto the deck.

Napoleon was uncertain how many minutes had passed until he could move again. He rolled to his side. Marit lay next to him, eyes open and glassy. He reached for her neck and felt for a pulse. She had none. He gently closed her lids.

“Napoleon.” 

Illya crawled nearer. They looked up at the dome of glowing fog.

“I’ll admit, I had hoped that would be more effective,” Napoleon said.

Several hours later the exhausting, gruesome work of retrieving bodies was complete. All had been given a sea burial, improvised but earnest. Vandermeer had since collapsed into a berth to sleep. 

Illya took a pull from a bottle of jenever. Sitting next to him on the cargo hatch, Napoleon twisted the crucifix on its chain.

“I’ve never seen that before.”

“I’ve never worn it before this. It’s a gift from Aunt Amy.” He smiled fondly. “Ever hopeful but never subtle.”

He took the bottle Illya extended and drank. “Do you think much about your death?”

“I prefer to think about surviving,” Illya replied and grunted dismissively. After a moment he said, “I sometimes think about turning 40. That will be death enough.”

“Sister John believes it’s beneficial to meditate on death.”

“It is one thing to meditate on it. It is quite another to give it a helping hand.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they knew telling me to jump off a cliff would be a hard sell.” He returned the bottle to Illya.

“Just how do nuns fit into your locating me?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

Illya swung the jenever in front of them. “We have time.”

“It started with that recording. Back in New York, it didn’t sound like Hungarian.”

“Could the computers not translate it?”

“Our computers aren’t programmed for the language of the dead.”

Illya took a long drink and lay back on the hatch cover. “I wonder why we could understand it here.”

Napoleon felt the artery pulsing incongruently in his wrist and sighed. “That’s because, IK, only the dead can understand the dead.”

“Who told you that?”

“A strange little professor. You’d probably like him. He’s the one who gave me that hand.” Napoleon laughed. “His students must think they’re being lectured by Bela Lugosi. ‘Only the dead can hear the dead.’” 

“That accent was even worse than your French.”

Napoleon had stopped listening. He murmured to himself, “The only other place he had heard the language was at the Cliff House.”

He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Sister John.”

“What makes you think they could possibly hear you?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“Even if they could, by your logic, you’d be incomprehensible.”

“Not so. ‘If you die before you die, then you won’t die when you die.’”

“When we get back, you should have Medical give you a scan. Talking like a fortune cookie must be indicative of some sort of head trauma.”

“Sister John!”

As Napoleon’s call faded away, a new sound took its place. 

“Hear that?”

“Yes,” Illya said reluctantly. “Perhaps I should have my head scanned as well.”

The faint sound of singing grew louder. “You’re not going to tell me that is the Heavenly Choir, are you?” Illya said.

“No. It’s the Sisters of the Mighty Hand of God.” Napoleon cupped his hands around his mouth. “Sister John!”

A voice cried out above the singing. “Mr. Solo. You must hurry. The fog is lifting.”

He turned to Illya. “Come on.”

“Where?” He raised himself onto one elbow and pointed upwards. “Back the way you came?”

“No. Into a lifeboat. We follow the singing.”

Illya stared up at him, then took another pull from the bottle. “I assume I’ll be rowing.”

“Not alone,” Napoleon chided. “Or do you plan to leave Vandermeer here?”

Illya sighed and rose from the cargo hatch. A sweep of his arm indicated Napoleon should lead the way. 

As the tiny boat approached the wall of fog, Illya and Vandermeer hesitated in their strokes.

“Keep going,” Napoleon urged from the prow. 

Vandermeer’s lips moved in silent prayer as they entered the thick, glowing vapor. It enshrouded the lifeboat, until each man became a hazy ghost to the others. Even the pull of the oars was muffled to near silence. 

The nuns’ singing, rising in volume with every stroke, was the only sign of their progress. The sickly gray light gradually took on a golden hue, as if the sun shone on the other side. The sacred chanting surrounded them, and the fog resonated like a great cathedral. Listening to the ancient Psalm and the transcendent beauty of the Latin, Napoleon was unsure where they would emerge or in what Year of the Lord.

Illya’s clinical tones broke into the reverent aura. “It’s burning off.”

“I know,” Napoleon whispered dampeningly. 

Shafts of golden light pierced the fog and reached down to touch each man. The mist dissipated. The oars dipped into shimmering crystal waters of a brilliant lapis blue. A sheer granite cliff rose before them. Four figures, three black, one white, descended the carved steps that zig-zagged from a small boat landing up its height. More black-robed figures lined the edge of the precipice. Their singing carried across the water and reverberated off the surrounding hills. 

As Illya tied up the boat, Napoleon reached for the silver case at his feet.

“Was it really necessary to bring that?” Illya asked.

“George expects it back, and I don’t want it deducted from my expenses.”

Illya rolled his eyes as he gave Vandermeer a hand out of the lifeboat. “Yes, I am sure Mr. Waverly will appreciate that effort when he considers the loss of an entire cargo ship.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Perhaps he will classify it as an Act of God.”

Napoleon frowned. “No, that was definitely not an act of God. This is,” he said and hopped out onto the landing.


End file.
